In Aubervilliers, nothing. The registry office held a single record of one Louis Jeunet, son of Gaston Jeunet, day labourer, and Berthe Marie Dufoin, domestic servant. Gaston Jeunet had died ten years earlier; his wife had moved away.
As for Louis Jeunet, no one knew anything about him, except that six years before he had written from Paris to request a copy of his birth certificate.
But the passport was still a forgery, which meant that the man who had killed himself in Bremen – after marrying the herbalist woman in Rue Picpus and having a son – was not the real Jeunet.
The criminal records in the Préfecture were another dead end: nothing indexed under the name of Jeunet, no fingerprints matching the ones of the dead man, taken in Germany. Evidently this desperate soul had never run afoul of the law in France or abroad, because headquarters kept tabs on the police records of most European nations.
The records went back only six years. At which point, there was a Louis Jeunet, a drilling machine operator, who had a job and lived the life of a decent working man.
He married. He already owned clothing B, which had provoked the first scene with his wife and years later would prove the cause of his death.
He had no friends, received no mail. He appeared to know Latin and therefore to have received an above-average education.
Back in his office, Maigret drew up a request for the German police to release the body, disposed of a few current matters and, with a sullen, sour face, once again opened the yellow suitcase, the contents of which had been so carefully labelled by the technician in Bremen.
To this he added the package of thirty Belgian thousand-franc notes – but abruptly decided to snap the string and copy down the serial numbers on the bills, a list he sent off to the police in Brussels, asking that they be traced.
He did all this with studied concentration, as if he were trying to convince himself that he was doing something useful.
From time to time, however, he would glance with a kind of bitterness at the crime-scene photos spread out on his desk, and his pen would hover in mid-air as he chewed on the stem of his pipe.
Regretfully, he was about to set the investigation aside and leave for home when he learned that he had a telephone call from Rheims.
It was about the picture published in the papers. The proprietor of the Café de Paris, in Rue Carnot, claimed to have seen the man in question in his establishment six days earlier – and had remembered this because the man got so drunk that he had finally stopped serving him.
Maigret hesitated. The dead man’s shoes had come from Rheims – which had now cropped up again.
Moreover, these worn-out shoes had been bought months earlier, so Louis Jeunet had not just happened to be in Rheims by accident.
One hour later, the inspector took his seat on the Rheims express, arriving there at ten o’clock. A fashionable establishment favoured by the bourgeoisie, the Café de Paris was crowded that evening; three games of billiards were in full swing, and people at a few tables were playing cards.
It was a traditional café of the French provinces, where customers shake hands with the cashier and waiters know all the regulars by name: local notables, commercial travellers and so forth. It even had the traditional round nickel-plated receptacles for the café dishcloths.
‘I am the inspector whom you telephoned earlier this evening.’
Standing by the counter, the proprietor was keeping an eye on his staff while he dispensed advice to the billiard players.
‘Ah, yes! Well, I’ve already told you all I know.’
Somewhat embarrassed, he spoke in a low voice.
‘Let me think … He was sitting over in that corner, near the third billiard table, and he ordered a brandy, then another, and a third … It was at about this same time of night. People were giving him funny looks because – how shall I put this? – he wasn’t exactly our usual class of customer.’
‘Did he have any luggage?’
‘An old suitcase with a broken lock. I remember that when he left, the suitcase fell open and some old clothes spilled out. He even asked me for some string to tie it closed.’
‘Did he speak to anyone?’
The proprietor glanced over at one of the billiard players, a tall, thin young man, a snappy dresser, the very picture of a sharp player whose every bank shot would be studied with respect.
‘Not exactly … Won’t you have something, inspector? We could sit over here, look!’
He chose a table with trays stacked on it, off to one side.
‘By about midnight, he was as white as this marble tabletop. He’d had maybe eight or nine brandies. And I didn’t like that stare he had – it takes some people that way, the alcohol. They don’t get agitated or start rambling on, but at some point they simply pass out cold. Everyone had noticed him. I went over to tell him that I couldn’t serve him any more, and he didn’t protest in any way.’
‘Was anyone still playing billiards?’
‘The fellows you see over at that third table. Regulars, here every evening: they have a club, organize competitions. Well, the man left – and that’s when there was that business with the suitcase falling open. The state he was in, I don’t know how he managed to tie the string. I closed up a half-hour later. These gentlemen here shook my hand leaving, and I remember one of them said, ‘We’ll find him off somewhere in the gutter!’
The proprietor glanced again at the smartly dressed player with the white, well-manicured hands, the impeccable tie, the polished shoes that creaked each time he moved around the billiard table.
‘I might as well tell you everything, especially since it’s probably some fluke or a misunderstanding … The next day, a travelling salesman who drops by every month and who was here that night, well, he told me that at about one in the morning he’d seen the drunk and Monsieur Belloir walking along together. He even saw them both go into Monsieur Belloir’s house!’
‘That’s the tall blond fellow?’
‘Yes. He lives five minutes from here, in a handsome house in Rue de Vesle. He’s the deputy director of the Banque de Crédit.’
‘Is the salesman here tonight?’
‘No, he’s off on his regular tour through his eastern territories, won’t be back until mid-November or so. I told him he must have been mistaken, but he stuck to his story. I almost mentioned it to Monsieur Belloir, as a little joke, but thought, better not. He might have been offended, right? In fact, I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t make a big deal out of what I just told you – or at least don’t make it look as if it came from me. In my profession …’
Having just scored a break of forty-eight points, the player in question was looking around to gauge everyone’s reaction while he rubbed the tip of his cue with green chalk. He frowned almost imperceptibly when he noticed Maigret sitting with the proprietor.
For, like most people trying to appear relaxed, the café owner looked worried, as if he were up to something.
Belloir called out to him from across the room.
‘It’s your turn, Monsieur Émile!’
4. The Unexpected Visitor
The house was new, and there was something in the studied refinement of its design and building materials that created a feeling of comfort, of crisp, confident modernism and a well-established fortune.
Red bricks, freshly repointed; natural stone; a front door of varnished oak, with brass fittings.
It was only 8.30 in the morning when Maigret turned up at that door, half hoping to catch a candid glimpse of the Belloir family’s private life.
The façade, in any case, seemed suitable for a bank deputy director, an impression increased by the immaculately turned-out maid who opened the door. The entrance hall was quite large, with a door of bevelled glass panes at the end. The walls were of faux marble, and geometric patterns in two colours embellished the granite floor.
To the left, two sets of double doors of pale oak, leading to the drawing room and dining room.
&nbs
p; Among the clothes hanging from a portmanteau was a coat for a child of four or five. A big-bellied umbrella stand held a Malacca cane with a gold pommel.
Maigret had only a moment to absorb this atmosphere of flawless domesticity, for he had barely mentioned Monsieur Belloir when the maid replied, ‘If you’d be so good as to follow me, the gentlemen are expecting you.’
She walked towards the glass-paned door. Passing another, half-open door, the inspector caught a glimpse of the dining room, cosy and neat, where a young woman in a peignoir and a little boy of four were having their breakfast at a nicely laid table.
Beyond the last door was a staircase of pale wooden panelling with a red floral carpet runner fixed to each step by a brass rod.
A large green plant sat on the landing. The maid was already turning the knob of another door, to a study, where three men turned as one towards their visitor.
There was a reaction of shock, deep unease, even real distress that froze the looks in their eyes, which only the maid never noticed as she asked in a perfectly natural voice, ‘Would you like me to take your coat?’
One of the three gentlemen was Belloir, perfectly dressed, with not a blond hair out of place. The man next to him was a little more casually attired, and a stranger to Maigret. The third man, however, was none other than Joseph Van Damme, the businessman from Bremen.
Two of the men spoke simultaneously.
With a dry hauteur in keeping with the décor and frowning as he stepped forwards, Belloir inquired, ‘Monsieur?’ – while at the same time Van Damme, in an effort to summon up his usual bonhomie, held out his hand to Maigret and exclaimed, ‘What a surprise! Imagine seeing you here!’
The third man silently took in the scene in what looked like complete bafflement.
‘Please excuse me for disturbing you,’ began the inspector. ‘I did not expect to be interrupting a meeting this early in the morning …’
‘Not at all! Not at all!’ replied Van Damme. ‘Do sit down! Cigar?’
There was a box on the mahogany desk. He hurried to open it and select a Havana, talking all the while.
‘Hold on, I’m looking for my lighter … You’re not going to write me a ticket because these are missing their tobacco tax stamp, are you? But why didn’t you tell me in Bremen that you knew Belloir! When I think that we might have made the trip together! I left a few hours after you did: a telegram, some business requiring my presence in Paris. And I’ve taken advantage of it to come and say hello to Belloir …’
The latter, having lost none of his starchy manner, kept looking from one to the other of the two men as if waiting for an explanation, and it was towards him that Maigret turned and spoke.
‘I’ll make my visit as short as possible, given that you’re expecting someone …’
‘I am? How do you know?’
‘Simple! Your maid told me that I was expected. And as I cannot be the person in question, then clearly …’
His eyes were laughing in spite of himself, but his face stayed perfectly blank.
‘Inspector Maigret, of the Police Judiciaire. Perhaps you noticed me yesterday evening at the Café de Paris, where I was seeking information relevant to an ongoing investigation.’
‘It can’t be that incident in Bremen, surely?’ remarked Van Damme, with feigned indifference.
‘The very one! Would you be so kind, Monsieur Belloir, as to look at this photograph and tell me if this is indeed the man you invited into your home one night last week?’
He held out a picture of the dead man. The deputy bank director looked at it, but vacantly, without seeing it.
‘I don’t know this person!’ he stated, returning the photo to Maigret.
‘You’re certain this isn’t the man who spoke to you when you were returning home from the Café de Paris?’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Forgive me if I seem to labour the point, but I need some information that is, after all, of only minor importance, and I took the liberty of disturbing you at home because I assumed you would not mind helping us in our inquiries. On that evening, a drunk was sitting near the third billiard table, where you were playing. All the customers noticed him. He left shortly before you did, and later on, after you’d left your friends, he approached you.’
‘I have a vague recollection … He asked me for a light.’
‘And you came back here with him, isn’t that right?’
Belloir smiled rather nastily.
‘I’ve no idea who told you such nonsense. I’m hardly the sort of person to bring home tramps.’
‘You might have recognized him – as an old friend, or …’
‘I have better taste in friends!’
‘You’re saying that you went home alone?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Was that man the same one in the photo I just showed you?’
‘I have no idea. I never even looked at him.’
Listening with obvious impatience, Van Damme had been on the verge of interrupting several times. As for the third man, who had a short brown beard and was dressed all in black in a bygone but ‘artistic’ fashion, he was looking out of the window, occasionally wiping away the fog his breath left on the pane.
‘In which case, I must now simply thank you and apologize once again, Monsieur Belloir.’
‘Just a minute, inspector!’ exclaimed Joseph Van Damme. ‘You’re not going to leave just like that? Please, do stay here with us for a moment, and Belloir will offer us some of that fine brandy he always keeps on hand … Do you realize that I’m rather put out with you for not coming to dinner with me, in Bremen? I waited for you all evening!’
‘Did you travel here by train?’
‘By plane! I almost always fly, like most businessmen, in fact! Then, in Paris, I felt like dropping in on my old friend Belloir. We were at university together.’
‘In Liège?’
‘Yes. And it’s almost ten years now since we last saw each other. I didn’t even know that he’d got married! It’s odd to find him again – with a fine young son! But … are you really still working on that suicide of yours?’
Belloir had rung for the maid, whom he told to bring brandy and some glasses. His every move was made slowly and carefully, but with each move he betrayed the gnawing uncertainty he felt.
‘The investigation has only just begun,’ said Maigret quietly. ‘It’s impossible to tell if it will be a long one or if the case will be all wrapped up in a day or two.’
When the front doorbell rang, the other three men exchanged furtive glances. Voices were heard; then someone with a strong Belgian accent asked, ‘Are they all upstairs? Don’t bother, I know the way.’
From the doorway he called out, ‘Hello, fellows!’
And met with dead silence. When he saw Maigret, he looked questioningly at the others.
‘Weren’t you … expecting me?’
Belloir’s expression tightened. Walking over to the inspector, he said, as if through clenched teeth, ‘Jef Lombard, a friend.’
Then, pronouncing every syllable distinctly: ‘Inspector Maigret, of the Police Judiciaire.’
The new arrival gave a little start, and stammered in a flat voice that squeaked in the most peculiar way, ‘Aha! … I see … Well, fine …’
After which, in his bewilderment, he gave his overcoat to the maid, only to chase after her to retrieve the cigarettes he had left in a pocket.
‘Another Belgian, inspector,’ observed Van Damme. ‘Yes, you’re witnessing a real Belgian reunion! You must think this all looks like a conspiracy … What about that brandy, Belloir? Inspector, a cigar? Jef Lombard is the only one who still lives in Liège. It just so happens that business affairs have brought us all to the same place at the same moment, so we’ve decided to celebrate, and have a grand old time! And I wonder if …’
He hesitated for a moment, looking around at the others.
‘You skipped that dinner I wanted to treat you to in Bremen. Why
not have lunch with us later today?’
‘Unfortunately, I have other engagements,’ replied Maigret. ‘Besides, I’ve already taken enough of your time.’
Jef Lombard had gone over to a table. He was pale, with irregular features, so tall and thin that his limbs seemed too long for his body.
‘Ah! Here’s the picture I was looking for,’ muttered Maigret, as if to himself. ‘I won’t ask you, Monsieur Lombard, if you know this man, because that would be one chance in a million …’
But he contrived to show him the photo anyway – and saw the man’s Adam’s apple seem to swell, bobbing weirdly up and down.
‘Don’t know him,’ Lombard managed to croak.
Belloir’s manicured fingers were drumming on his desk, while Van Damme cast about for something to say.
‘So, inspector, I won’t have the pleasure of seeing you again? You’re going straight back to Paris?’
‘I’m not sure yet. My apologies, gentlemen.’
Van Damme shook hands with him, so the others had to as well. Belloir’s hand was hard and dry. The bearded man’s handshake was more hesitant, and Jef Lombard was off in a corner of the study lighting a cigarette, so he simply nodded towards Maigret and grunted.
Maigret brushed past the green plant in its enormous porcelain pot and went back down the stairs with their brass carpet rods. In the front hall, over the shrill scraping of a violin lesson, he heard a woman’s voice saying, ‘Slow down … Keep your elbow level with your chin … Gently!’
It was Madame Belloir and her son. He caught sight of them from the street, through the drawing-room curtains.
It was 2 p.m., and Maigret had just finished lunch at the Café de Paris when he noticed Van Damme come in and look around as if searching for someone. Spotting Maigret, he smiled and came over with his hand outstretched.
‘So this is what you call having other engagements! Eating alone in a restaurant! I understand: you wanted to leave us in peace.’
He was clearly one of those people who latch on to you without any invitation, ignoring any suggestion that their attentions might be unwelcome.
The Hanged Man of Saint-Pholien Page 4
